Surplus Cats

When I was four, I was given two goldfish on Valentine’s Day; Stripe and Spot. One morning a few weeks later only Spot, twice his usual size, was in the bowl. When I asked Mom what happened she said, “When two fishes love each other very much they stick together and become one.”

I’ve been thinking about Santa Claus, ever since it came up in conversation over dinner with my boyfriend about two weeks ago. He said he wouldn’t lie to a kid, and I was intensely disturbed for several minutes. Here, I’m the adamant skeptic and he’s the on-the-fence leaning-towards-there’s-something-bigger-out-there sort, and he’s the one saying Santa Claus is a dirty trick.

At first, I couldn’t figure out why I was bothered by the notion that our hypothetical (hopefully to stay that way) children would miss out on the elf, the myth, the legend that is the jolly fat man. Was it just the warm and fuzzy memories of my very merry holidays growing up? Why was I so insistent that “they” would miss out and resent me later?

So I’ve been turning these ideas over and over in my head ever since, and I’m still not entirely sure how I feel. I do know the following:

• I was sad for about three days when Mom finally let me in on the Big Secret.
• Once I really thought about it I realized that my parents had given up credit on the most exciting and fun gifts under the tree all that time, just to make it more fun for all of us.
• Mom asked me not to spoil it for my brother or for any kids at school who didn’t know. “That is for their parents to do. Don’t take that away from them. It would’ve made me very sad if someone had ruined our fun.” I got it, promised I wouldn’t, and never did.
• However, I also felt really dumb for having believed it. There’d been so many funny things grownups had told me in the past that I knew were silly jokes or just a “because I said so” brush-off/avoidance tactic. Why hadn’t I seen this coming, I chided myself.

How would my childhood have been different if I’d never believed in Santa or the Candy Rabbit or the Tooth Fairy? Would I also have been less terrified that perhaps the creepy looking dolls in the glass cabinet opposite my bed would at some point come to life, find or create their own makeshift weapons and murderously attack me in my sleep? This is actually quite likely, as the weird magic-y elf stuff made me wonder what else lurked about. It couldn’t all be flying reindeer and generous bunnies, I figured. And why wouldn’t I? If there can be a castle made of teeth, and beings that can travel the world-over in a single night, why couldn’t they have some wicked-awful contemporaries? Mom said there were no such things as monsters, but was she just saying that to make me feel better? I slept with one eye open, and made sure my limbs never got too close to the side of the bed. You just never could be sure, apparently.

Are a few nights of joy a year worth the 360 or so plagued with potential nightmares? Maybe, maybe not.

It took only a short while after the Claus was let out of the bag, for me to start to question everything they’d told me. Maybe the cats really could eat people food — Samantha did seem interested in my sandwiches. Maybe the police didn’t arrest children out after dark that weren’t directly in front of their houses. How did they know what kids belonged to which house anyhow? Maybe there really were cooties. Maybe grownups weren’t just lying about things — maybe it was worse. Maybe they just didn’t know.

I started getting into trouble at Sunday school. I wanted to know how everyone was so sure the monks got the Bible straight. Wouldn’t it be like whisper-down-the-lane? How was anyone to know if it was even close? And who was this lady Cain went off and started a family with? Where’d she come from if his parents were the only people in the world?

“Beth, don’t you dare question the teachings of Jesus,” is all Miss Elsie would say. But Mom’d told me it was important to ask questions when you didn’t understand something, even if the other kids rolled their eyes or laughed. “There are no stupid questions,” she said, “The bigger mistake would be to try and keep going without all the information.”

At 8 or 9 years old, they stop saying “bless her precious soul” when exasperated. You’re difficult and a disruption, even more so than the kids who chatter without paying attention, and the ones snapping rubber bands or drumming on the table. By 11-12 you’re pulled aside and told to keep quiet. “Don’t ruin it for the other children. You keep your mouth shut and speak when spoken to,” hissed Mr. D, who made sure I wasn’t spoken to again. Disappointed and frustrated, I started sneaking down into the church cellar as soon as I was out of sight from my mom and step-grandmother, to hide in the supply closet or the ladies’ room and read whatever book I smuggled in.

By 13 I was fed up with getting up early on Sundays to go and do something I could just as easily do at home in my pjs. I finally realized Mom would be really pissed off if she knew why I’d stopped wanting to go to church, and it wouldn’t be at me. I never had to go back, after that and after a few weeks of her coming home, agitated and narrow-eyed, she stayed home with me. Weekends were suddenly much more enjoyable, but I felt bad she’d lost a social outlet because of me.

Around that time we went on a trip to see our extended family who live in snow-country. It was summer time, and my younger cousin who was about three at the time runs through the meadow that is their backyard at me with something clasped in her hands.

“I have a bird!” she squealed.

“Oooh, whatcha got there? Let’s see,” I said cupping her hands as we peered in, a little worried she’d snatched up a fallen chick. Fuzzy brown antennae emerged, followed by the velvety body and wings of a particularly dazzling moth.

“Oh! That’s not a bird, though it does have wings and can fly too. Do you know what else can fly?”

“Bats!” she said. One of her favorite books was about a bat, Stellaluna, who lived with birds. “It’s so small.”

“Maybe it’s a baby bat,” I said. “Go show Aunt Jo!”

“Lookit! I have a baby bat! I have a baby bat!” she chirped as she ran into the kitchen, to the horror of my Aunt. Because of the distance between our states and our infrequent visits, well over a decade later, my cousin still raises an eyebrow when I tell her something. “Yeah right, Beth! MOM. . .”

I totally get the appeal of lying to children, and think I want to do it as often as possible. It is probably a good thing the kids are going to stay hypothetical. But maybe not.

Tags: Atheism, growing up, monsters, Santa Claus, secular holidays, skeptical
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